


To Find Our Place

by Syntaxeme



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Arguing, Character Development, Conflict, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Insults, Origins, Past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaxeme/pseuds/Syntaxeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story starts at the beginning of La Muerte and Xibalba's relationship, from their first meeting onward. The playful (and sometimes not so playful) arguments they have today are nothing compared to how they clashed when they first met; it will take them centuries to figure out exactly what their relationship is. Not only do they have to get past La Muerte's temper and Xibalba's inadvertent condescension, but their conflicting views on human nature will come between them on more than one occasion. We'll also see why and how the Afterlife comes to be, and the part it plays in bringing them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Find Our Place

            There was a time when the Afterlife, as we know it today, did not exist. The world was still young, and mankind was even younger. During that time, death was much more permanent. And afterwards, there was…nothing. Oblivion. With nowhere to go on and unable to stay rooted in the physical world, the souls of the dead quickly faded and disappeared.

            It was during this time that Xibalba could still have called himself a bachelor. He had built up a reputation for himself as a trickster, but his favorite title was “God of Death.” It had such a lovely ring of _power_ , power he delighted in lording over the mortals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path. He saw little point in their existence, outside his own entertainment; after all, they were so short-lived, so easily replaced, whereas he was eternal. Besides, what more did he have to occupy himself…?

            In all his years, no one had ever challenged him. No one refused his two-faced offers or questioned his underhanded deals. His wicked charms were simply too much for any human to resist. His first real experience with the word “no” was also his first time meeting another immortal. It happened when he was visiting a small town in eastern Mexico; as he strolled through the city looking for mischief to be made, he was halted by a scream, followed soon by a throng of people, young and old, rushing past him in a panic. What could have frightened them so much?

            “Wait!” His answer came in the form of a woman’s voice. Its owner appeared as if chasing the humans, but she quickly gave up with a dejected sigh. Because she stopped so nearby, Xibalba was given a moment to take in her appearance. She was a terror. And she was gorgeous. She stood at least as tall as he did, skeletally thin and swathed in a dress of red velvet that draped over her delicate bone structure like skin. There were flowers—marigolds—atop her head, along with a veil that covered her face and flowed down her thick, black hair. He had never seen anything like her; she was definitely no mortal. When she buried her face in her hands and started to cry, he balked for a moment. _That_ was an oddly-human thing for an immortal to do.

            “Not much luck talking to them, hm?” he asked, sauntering over to her, cool as ever. When she heard him speak, she looked up at him with eyes that glowed like the sun against their pitch-black backdrop. More interesting all the time. “I’ve found they respond better to forms they can recognize.”

            “I don’t want to deceive them,” she said, eyeing him warily. “They shouldn’t be afraid of me.”

            “Don’t take it personally; they tend to fear things they don’t understand.”

            “I would explain if they would just listen,” she said, looking remorsefully in the direction to which the mortals had fled.

            “If it’s any consolation,” he said smoothly. “I’m not afraid of you. Explain it to _me_. Who are you?”

            “La Muerte,” she said without looking at him, and he had to stifle a laugh. Clearly, this woman was sadly misinformed.

            “That’s quite a large name for someone so petite,” he chuckled, not noticing as she stiffened in irritation. “But I think you may be mistaken. You see, I’m—”

            “I know who you are,” she said, taking him by surprise.

            “Do you?”

            “Yes. They have legends about you, you know.” The tone of her voice should have made her disapproval exceedingly clear. Still, he hardly seemed to notice, too pleased with himself for making such an impression.

            “Well, then you know that the position of Death-god is already filled. It doesn’t seem to be working well for you, anyway; why not choose another position?” He didn’t _mean_ to sound so condescending; it was just a natural talent. Regardless, La Muerte was not amused.

            “God?” she repeated. “You? The only thing I’ve heard of you is that you’re a _liar_.” Finally, her annoyance seemed to reach him, and he frowned. How could she reduce his artful deceptions to a word as simple as “lying”?

            “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. But most often, you’ll hear them talk about how beguiling and charismatic I am.” She rolled her eyes; he certainly liked to hear himself talk…about himself. “They’re mortal. They needed someone to end their lives, so I took the job. Is it such a crime that I should have a little fun with it now and then?”

            “You don’t care about them in the least, do you?” She sounded so disgusted, and he couldn’t understand why.

            “No,” he said plainly. “Why? Should I? Do _you_?”

            “Of course I do,” she snapped. “Do you not see how important they are? That none of this would exist if not for them?” She gestured to their surroundings, and it was his turn to roll his eyes; she was giving the mortals _far_ too much credit.

            “Please,” he said. “They may have their uses, but after sixty or seventy years, they’re gone and replaced by the next generation. None of them is special. Not like m—us.” He’d intended to charm her, but she was making it so difficult! It wasn’t his fault that she had such silly and naïve world views.

            “You think you’re special?” she asked, arms crossed. “What have you contributed to the world?” He opened his mouth to answer…then promptly shut it again. What did she want from him? Why was she being so stubborn?

            “And what are _you_ contributing, when you’re so afraid of lying that you can’t even speak to them?” he countered, and her heated glare fell immediately into shock. Pleased with himself for earning at least one point against her, he smirked—and lost his only chance to turn their argument back into a civil conversation. Her gaze immediately flared up again in frustration.

            “You can’t criticize me for that when you don’t even _care_ what happens to them. You’re using them for your own amusement; what kind of _god_ treats mortals that way?”

            “The kind who realizes he’s above them?”

            “You aren’t _above_ anyone, you self-centered toad, least of all them!”

            “For someone so ‘humble,’ you’re awfully judgmental of my motives.”

            “ _Someone_ has to tell you that you’re wrong; you clearly have no morals of your own.”

            “Tsk, spare me the holier-than-thou lecture, miss manners, and talk to me when you start doing anything even vaguely consequential.”

            With an exasperated shriek, La Muerte ended the argument by fleeing faster than his eye could track, leaving a trail of scorched earth and marigold petals in her wake. He thought about chasing her, but what was the point? This whole confrontation had left him _thoroughly_ unsatisfied. Just who did that harpy think she was, trying to tear him down that way? More importantly, why had it bothered him so much? He let out a growl, and his wings shifted restlessly. It didn’t matter what she thought. She was obviously deluding herself, so her words held no weight whatsoever.

            He made no deals that day. He couldn’t, not while she could still be nearby, silently condemning him from a distance. The fact that he was taking her presence into account at all was maddening, but that didn’t stop him from departing soon after their conversation, leaving the town untouched and, he just knew, playing right into her hands. _La Muerte_. Such a presumptuous name. No wonder she had been so dismissive to him. Well, he wouldn’t take that lying down. When they met again—and he was certain they would—he would have a few choice words for her, and he wouldn’t let her leave until he’d finished.

            Part of him was even looking forward to it.


End file.
